The Waiting Game
by zeewriter
Summary: We all sit around waiting for something big to happen, so what happens when you finally stop waiting... E/B, AH, canon couples, rated M for Language and eventual lemons.


**AN: I know, I know. How can I start a new story while I haven't even updated my other ones? Well, technically I am and I'm not. I went to the museum, had a little inspiration and I had to write this chapter out before I forgot it. I will NOT update this story again until my other two are done, so don't go getting your panties in a bunch. I hope you enjoy and yes, I will be updating the other stories very soon.**

**Disclaimer: Twilight and all characters belong to SM. I own some low quality camera phone pictures of real paintings.

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**Chapter One**

**BPOV**

I wasn't one for religious art but here I was sitting in a room full of Jesus', Mary's and angels. Directly in front of me was Jesus on his death bed after he was taken down from the crucifix. Was I in a fatalistic mood, definitely not, but the room was empty and I appreciated the solitude. I guess I wasn't the only one not so fond of religious depictions.

I felt like I was waiting for something sitting here. Maybe I was waiting for Jesus to rise from the dead if that sort of thing really happens.

Here was an interesting thought. Devout Christians will tell you that all good people to go heaven and there was no such thing as life after death or reincarnation, but didn't their own Jesus Christ come back from the dead? He was reincarnated in his own body. So was Lazarus, but saying anything to this effect is considered blasphemous. Those kooky Christians, gotta love them.

I digress…

I was still waiting. I needed to figure out what I was waiting for though. The second coming of Christ? The man of my dreams to sweep me off my feet? Hit the lotto and become a millionaire? I would have to play the lotto first for that to happen. Maybe I was waiting for me to get off my ass and do something meaningful. I could be waiting a long time.

My religious room was no longer empty. It was raining outside, as it has been this whole strange summer. People were trickling into the museum to escape the rain. If they only knew they had until five thirty and it would still be raining when the museum closed.

A couple sat down on the bench next to me and jostled the seat. Those bastards took me from my thoughts. Maybe that meant I should be paying more attention to my surroundings. I could do that, but I would rather get lost in Jesus' death. I guess I am in a fatalistic mood after all.

My cell phone buzzed. I had it on vibrate because I was considerate and didn't want to disturb the other patrons. I should pat myself on the back for that. I checked to see who was calling me. My mother, Renee. I haven't spoken to her in a few days. I was sure she was worried about me. She always was. I didn't have much reception in the museum so I let the call go to voicemail. I proceeded to e-mail her that I was in the museum and I would call her later. Hopefully that appeased her.

Back to my staring…

At this point now I was not looking at Jesus, but I was wondering what possessed the artist to paint him in such a fashion. Why choose this particular scene and the colors, the media used, the canvas. I guess it was all a matter of choice and mood, similar to my writing, which was currently at a standstill.

I was a freelance writer for a short story magazine. They expected me to hand in something at least weekly. It has been over a month. The e-mails came in asking when I would submit something and the response was always the same. Soon. Short, sweet and vague beyond belief. The pay was good so I had been able to sustain myself during this time, but I was running out of funds and needed to submit a story before the end of the month. My rent was due. At least my share of it was due.

I lived with two other women in a big fancy condo in Battery Park City. They wouldn't have it any other way. I loved them dearly and I trusted them with my life but they were spoiled rich kids from the 'burbs. They were so unlike me, but they seemed to get me and complement me very well. Their names were Rosalie and Alice.

Rosalie was a beautiful statuesque blonde with long wavy hair, a perfect body to die for and legs for days. Alice was the complete opposite. She was short, petite and wild. Her hair was somewhat spiky, but messy and always looked perfectly done. I wasn't sure how she did it. She hated her parents so she did whatever she could to fuck with them. Asking me, the poor city girl, to move in with her was one of those things.

I remembered when they came to visit. Mr. and Mrs. Brandon. She kept her bag in her sight at all times. He moved his wallet from back to front pocket. I think I whispered "boo" in her ear just to see her jump. It was quite a sight. The girls and I were laughing for days.

Just for the record, I am a law abiding citizen. I have to be, my father was the chief of police of a very small town. I didn't like to disappoint him.

I was no longer in my room alone. A budding artist had taken residence in between the two benches. He had an easel, canvas and a palette and was trying to recreate the painting next to my Jesus. And now he had an audience. Too many people, it was time to move.

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I moved on. I was surrounded by Paul Cezanne. In front of me were some apples. I passed the modern art wing on my way here. I didn't get it. How could throwing some paint haphazardly on a canvas be considered a masterpiece? The nerve of some of these people to take advantage of others! The fact that someone would shill out a million bucks for a Jackson Pollock piece was just…well it was just… Hmmm… Now that I think about it, these artists were brilliant. Collecting a million dollars because you accidentally spilled a can of paint was, quite literally, a stroke of genius. I wonder if I could do that. I would need to find a good agent to market my junk.

The apples were making me hungry and the people taking a picture of the apples were making me laugh. I suppose since they couldn't afford the real thing, a picture of the picture was a better deal. Maybe I should take some pictures with my low quality camera phone. That was a possibility.

As I walked around before finding my current perch I felt strange electricity running through my body. It was making me anxious, but I felt safe and warm at the same time. I was sensing it even stronger now. I looked around and there were several people admiring the paintings. There was the family with the balding father trying to keep his kids interested. There were a couple of Asian women taking pictures next to the artwork. There was a tall bronze-haired man staring at the apples. I couldn't see his face but he had a strong back and a cute behind. If only he would turn my way.

I was inexplicably drawn to him. I didn't know why. I also thought the electric current coursing through my body was coming from him, if that made any sense.

So I sat and stared at his back and waited for him to turn around. There I was again, always waiting. Not this time. I was going to take a bite of the apple and pray it wasn't poisoned.

I stood up and walked over to the man with the bronze hair and strong back. He didn't seem to notice at first, but like two magnets, our hands touched. He turned to me and smiled, his emerald green eyes boring into mine.

"I've been waiting for you."

"You don't have to wait any longer."

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**AN: Okay, so there were a couple of stereotypes in this little chapter and I mean no offense by any of them. As for the religious whatever you want to call it, again, no offense was meant by it. I'm not religious and neither is my Bella. **

**In case you were wondering, this took place at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The two paintings that Bella was "admiring" are linked in my profile.**

**Reviews make me happy and I do respond to all of them. :o)**


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